Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction
by krisetchers
Summary: Five stories. A mix of truth and deception. Can you guess which of them were made up, and at the same time determine which ones had actually occurred in the real world? Challenge yourself as you break the line between: Fact and Fiction.
1. Rocky Edges

**This is a sort-of interactive fic that includes the basis outline of the TV show, "Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction", which had stopped airing three years ago. I loved it to death and still miss it... The story also includes Mario characters, which I do not own. Nor do I own the theme of this fic, or the first paragraph below. Please enjoy!**

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_We live in a world where the real and the unreal lives side by side. Where substance is disguised as illusion and the only explanations are unexplainable. Can you separate truth from fantasy? To do so, you must break through the web of your experience, and open your mind to things…Beyond Belief._

* * *

Host: What is truth? The noble certainty? Reality? Or is there something else to it? How close can truth be connected to fiction? Is there really a line separating both from one another, or is the merge more visible than we think it is? We have stories for you tonight, some which are created from the creative mind of…someone named krisetchers…and some from the mind of truth itself. Just remember, names, situations, and places have been changed, nearly dramatically, but one thing stays same in all the fact stories: the plot, and the truth. Readers, you are welcome to predict and speculate on these strange tales, but we have other people as well in our VIP section. 

Luigi: It's a me! Not my brother this time, just me. Is it just me or does this occasion make me as happy as when I was in my own game?

Wario: Which involved a house full of ghosts? Ha! What a game of stupidity.

Host: You might want to reconsider that Mr. Wario, at the end of our show.

Wario: I only came here for the appetizers in the lobby room. And would I ever lose this game? Nah.

Peach: Hi, it's Peach. I'm here to test my wits and try my best. Although I'm very skeptical about these kind of stuff.

Flurrie: Hey sweetums, I'm here all sweet and special. Can I win this, or will I mess up as much as I did with my makeup this morning?

Klepto: And I'm here too, not only to return this hat back to Luigi, but also to see if fiction will strike out to me as obvious in this episode's stories. Not to mention I might have the potential to win.

Peach: Win? What's everyone mentioning something about winning? We're just here for fun and to guess!

Host: Actually you're mistaken. There is a special prize for the one who can get the most accurate predictions on the stories for tonight.

Peach: Oh, that's just all right I guess. Tee hee, what fun.

Host: Okay then, take a look at this poster.

Protruding from the upper right corner is a line, going down diagonally down to the bottom left corner of the square. Midway, a thick block is vertical, and blocks the path of the line going diagonally down. However, there are two lines that protrude out from behind the block, both leading to the bottom left corner. But only one of them is the real one, connected to the single line from the upper right, and one of them is a fake.

Host: The line goes down behind the block, into two ends. But only one of them is actually connected. Which one is it?

Wario: Hahaha, so easy, as if I were seeing behind the block. It's the one on the top.

Flurrie: Yes, I believe it is end #1 that completes the line.

Host: You're both mistaken, unfortunately.

The host got a ruler and placed it against the line going down from the upper right corner, and it connected with the end on the bottom. Wario mumbled.

Wario: Come on, it's obviously a rigged line.

Luigi: Just admit it Wario, this just shows are fooled you can a be. Mario will look up to a me when I win this show! I used to love this show, and I still do.

Peach: Now that there's a prize, I'm trying extra hard from now.

Klepto: Ahem, when do we start? I can't wait.

Host: Just like this line shows, it can bend the possibilities of the truth and lies. Can you separate fiction from reality and break that line…or is there not really any line between them at all?

* * *

The scenario shows Mr. Host in the room, standing in front of a grandfather clock. The pendulum is swinging at a slow and steady rate, as the second hand on the face of the grand clock is ticking slowly and slowly. The hour hand is on the seven, the minute hand pointing right up. 

"Look at this clock. It's nearly exactly 7: 00 P.M, just on time. Time is seen as the ever flowing river. It goes on till the time infinite, until the end of the world. But even at the end of the world, its still keeps on continuing to exist and flow past us at its same exact rate hundreds of thousand years ago."

"Kenny Dreyer is a young toad who had discovered something beyond what time really was. He had discovered something that would affect his life and everything that surrounded him. He discovered the true fact for himself that time was truly the everlasting flowing river. But he also discovered how it could flow out of control, in fact, too out of control for young Kenny to handle."

**Rocky Edges**

_I always had that sense of adventure that never stopped me. It was as if I was born to walk all the time, to explore, to learn stuff, and even best; to feel free. I had come to Rocky Edges Hiking Tours for a better experience away from home._

_My mom was always too occupied in sewing to mind me leaving the house. In fact, she knew how fine I would be. She had always been interested with my exploring actions as a child, and she would laugh at my strong sense of imagination. I had always explored the forest behind our house as a kid numerous times. I walked for miles away from home, just to explore. And then I would return back. Well, not to mention that one time where the police was called by my worry-struck mother after I didn't arrive before midnight. I felt so free as if I had all the time I wanted to spend in the entire world. Then in my high school years, I was a camp counselor. We explored not only forests, but desert lands and water fall regions._

_I was already twenty two, and I had signed up for exploring one of the most mysterious mountain cliffs in the entire world, Rocky Edges. It was a tour with six people, with an experienced leader guiding us for an entire week. The mountain cliffs were arid in the beginning, and then as you went higher, people described the air as a piercing cold. Of course, I had never even heard of this place before. But it was said to be only for those with a strong heart and strong will. Over a hundred of people as the brochure said had quit before reaching the top cliff: 18,000 feet above sea level. What wusses I thought. But then again, what's a person to insult others when they themselves haven't gone through what those others have?_

"Name?" the magikoopa at the counter asked, who was wearing a unique red hat at the top of his head. The Rocky Edges Hiking Tours Station was a fairly large structure. It was also a sleep away camp for younger kids as well, and in front of the main office building, nearly fifty eager children had just been deposited from a few buses. As Kenny was dropped off, he saw to the right of him an active tennis court. The players were so active and free, it gave him a sense of freedom in the center of his body. It was a large crowd of children for Kenny to pass through, but he made it through with ease.

"Kenny. Kenny Dreyer."

"Yes, your hike starts in an hour at 7:00 in the morning. Hope you have everything ready. It's a predicted seven days for the trip to the top, and back. If you happen to have any trouble and want to return back, then special emergency helicopters will have to bring you back, blah blah, all these requirements." The front office magikoopa leaned in closer to Kenny, the rim of his red cap nearly touching Kenny's forehead.

"Kid, don't make us do that."

"Are you kidding me?" Kenny replied. "The reason I'm in this travel is because of my past exploring experiences." He looked at the magikoopa; his red hat gave him a matchless look.

"The most experienced might still lose his place in time," the magikoopa said.

_I had pondered those words in my mind. Why did he have that strange, unnerving smile on his face? I just couldn't wait for the long trek to begin._

"Sign these papers," he said, stacking a packet in front of Kenny.

_An hour later, I met with my group of six others. The tour guide was called by the name of Hiker, which I found amusing. All the others seemed to be experienced explorers, just as experienced as me. I had talked to the five tourists and found out how much in common we all had. I was in charge of carrying a large, yet neatly stacked pile of folded tents. I had a water bottle stuck in the back pocket of my pants. And before I knew it, our group of seven started our voyage into the rocky cliffs. _

_I had never seen anything so strange and mysterious. The mountain went higher and higher, or rather, mountains. As I looked up, it stared right back at me as if it was threatening to pile its giant rocks all over our tiny bodies. Hiker had gas masks in his backpack, required for later if the air was limited in the increasing height of our elevation. Another person named James was carrying three huge containers of food, dragging them in a special type of bag. It was like three refrigerators were coming along with us. As I looked back, I looked at the large station of Rocky Edges Hiking Tours. Before I knew it, the place was out of sight behind a cliff, and we were all alone._

"First time climbing a mountain?" Hiker asked ten minutes later as he turned around to look at his group. Some of the others nodded and replied in response.

"Well, seven days with nothing but wildlife will be a challenge," he told them. "But let's keep spirits high, hmm? In one hour, we'll stop and take our break."

_We did nothing but talk about ourselves to the others. We took turns saying what we did for a living in our lives, and our reasons for deciding to climb the enormous length of the Rocky Ledges. When it was my turn, I didn't have much to say. I was too nervous and anxious about how we would take on our journey. But why was I feeling so nervous? I had never had that feeling before in my life. _

_And then we saw a cactus, exactly square in the middle of a fragment of cliff land. It was so fresh and green, with the prickles of the plant standing straight out from every part of its body in a healthy manner. I wiped the perspiration on my forehead. How long had we been walking for? It felt no more than thirty minutes._

"Whoo!" Hiker said enthusiastically. "Three hours already and this place is as hot as ever. I've climbed up and down this ledge mountain at least ten times so far in my entire time working here."

"Has it really been three hours?" Kenny managed to ask him.

"Kid, it's felt like five hours for me already," he replied, opening something from his backpack. "But for some people, time is as slow as ever."

"I haven't eaten all day," one of the hikers said.

"Wow, I'm really dying for a hamburger," another hiker said.

"The only thing you'll be dying for this whole week is canned beans and carrots," Hiker replied, and they laughed.

"Let me set up the cooling thing in this cooler," James said, as he started to open up one of the large containers of food. The others sat down and put their equipment down, as Kenny put down the folded tents besides all the other baggage.

_I know I should have been staying with them, but I couldn't help but look over the side of the cliff we were on. We had made it quite a distance in three hours. Although we weren't far at all up in the sky, I could look out at the horizon and forest below it. The view was amazing, and for a second, I felt that feeling of being free again, that feeling I always held onto when I was a child. I could never explain what had happened, but I distinctly remember a sharp, twisting pain in the center of my ankle. Then, my head started to spin, and then, blackness. I had passed out_

_---------------------------------------------------_

_I felt the pain still in my foot when I woke up. Large amounts of dust had collected all over my hands, and my clothes too. I didn't know what had happened, but when I had woken up from the rocky ground, I remembered everything. I was aware that I had passed out, and I was aware that I had fallen six feet onto another ledge. But where was the group? _

_I realized to my panic that the sun was not rising anymore, but it was doing the opposite. It was slightly going down into the horizon of the darkening sky. I wondered to myself where the group had went. I climbed onto the ledges, and farther up until I reached the small plateau on where my group was eating breakfast, lunch, or whatever it was. There was no one present._

_How much time had passed by while I was knocked out? was the question that entered my mind hundreds of times. I was frustrated with the fact that I had no watch with me. I realized that the bottle of water was still in my pants pocket, so I took it out and attempted to take a sip. I wasn't lost, I told myself. I can make it back. But could I?_

_Then I saw something right in front of me. It was that cactus, that same plump and green cactus I had seen that morning. But something was definitely not right. It was shriveled up, gray. Split in half from the top. The sky was darkening, and I knew I was not imagining. Perhaps the group had brutalized the poor plant before they continued on? And another question entered me: why did the group leave without me? Why didn't they look down the ledge to see me, passed out just six feet below? The question was burning inside me, not with hate or wrath, but with confusion and bewilderment._

_All I could do was walk as the sun started to set. I was so confused and had never felt so frightened before in my life as I walked down the ledges. That feeling of being free had changed within me. I think I might have had a remarkable sense of memorization, cause I started to vaguely trace my steps, recognizing shapes of the cliffs as I became more quicker in my stepping. I couldn't stop moving, and didn't hesitate to think which way was correct or not. I needed to get back to the Rocky Ledges Hiking Tour station as soon as possible and tell them a member had gone back safely._

_After what felt like an hour, I finally saw a glimpse of light from somewhere down below. I gave out a sigh of belief, and even let out a shout of excitement. I had made it back, just when the last bit of sun disappeared in the sky, and when the moon made its first shade of visibility. _

_But something struck me as different. The camp station was smaller. What used to be a wide set of at least six buildings from the morning I saw it had turned into one. It was a deserted waste land. I froze in my tracks, bedazzled. What had happened? Where did the other four or five large buildings go? Where were the cabins that littered all around the place? The possibility that struck me first was that there was some major constructing going on. No, it was impossible. I needed to find out._

_I literally ran till I was at of breath to the remaining building. This was impossible, I thought, was Rocky Ledges Hiking Tours Station suddenly torn down in hours? There was no sign of debris anywhere as I approached the cabin-like building with the lights still on. I remembered almost perfectly, the tennis court with the playing players that morning. As I stood in disbelief, I saw that to the right of me was that same tennis court, hardly recognizable under the new layer of piled mud and dirt. I was starting to go crazy, as I burst through the doors of the building. I saw a freezer, then a row of food, then a stack of magazines. I saw a magikoopa._

Kenny nearly stumbled his way to the counter, as the magikoopa looked at him in worry.

"Wow, you must be some tired traveler," he said. "Need some gas? There are two pumps right outside."

"No, no," Kenny gasped as he looked around. A gas station? What was this?

"Look, tell me what happened here!" Kenny demanded, his hands placed on the counter in a threatening way as his eyes became bloodshot with dread. "I want to know what the hell happened! Why did everything disappear? Where is the hell did Rocky Edges Station Camp go!? Where---" He stopped yelling at the stunned magikoopa as Kenny looked at him.

"Your…red hat," Kenny said suddenly. "You're that man in this building, the man at the counter, who signed everything up for me in the front office."

"My red hat," the calming magikoopa choked, before relaxing at the toad's outburst. "I have no idea what you're talking about. But about this red hat, I think I might be having a clue at…what you're heading at." His face had a look of confusion on it, as he looked at poor Kenny in concern.

"My uncle owned this red hat," the magikoopa said. "He used to own a place, which closed down. I owned the land and turned it into a small gas station to live a humble life."

Kenny stood silent as if a hypnotizing hush had gone over him.

"Well, the place previously was a camp, and a touring hike station before this gas station I built. It closed down."

"Why…why did it close down so suddenly?" Kenny asked him in a quivering voice. He was shaking at the same time as he listened, dazed.

"Not suddenly," the magikoopa replied. "Gradually. I heard that a group of seven people had been lost one day on a hike journey, over those old cliff mountains, and they were never found again. This meant bad business, and soon later, the station closed, and I was given the rightful owner of these acres living a mediocre life."

"That's…not possible!" Kenny cried out, this time in horror and ultimate misunderstanding. "The group got lost, and the place was shut down all in the hours of today?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't seem to understand what you're saying," the magikoopa said with a perplexed face, his eyes full of puzzlement. "After the reporting of the lost hiking group, Rocky Ledges Hiking Tours was shut down nearly twenty years ago."

* * *

"How do you explain this situation? What really happened to Kenny on that day of his timeless hike? Reports showed that none of the bodies ever showed up twenty years ago, the day the hiking group was reported lost. Was Kenny really one of those hikers who turned out to be alive, perhaps, having past hallucinations of the terrors he had encountered years before? Or did Kenny really experience a time traveling flow in time during his passed out session? But explain this fact; why did Kenny never age? The remaining info on the travelers indicated a man of 22 years of age, the exact age Kenny resembled to officials that following day after the gas station, was a hiker in the tour. Our story ends with the fact that Kenny entered himself into a mental institution, still haunted by his unforgettable experience. Does this tale show the true existence of a gap in the ever flowing river, time? Or does this story fall into the category of time...put into the efforts of creating a story of fiction?" 

The pendulum is swinging at a faster rate on the grandfather clock now, faster than before. This time, on the face of the clock, the hour hand is placed directly at the nine.

"That's odd…wasn't it just 7:00 a few minutes ago?"

* * *

Luigi: Ayayaya! That's crazy. 

Peach: Agree tenfold! Yeesh.

Flurrie: Beyond belief, and mysterious.

Wario: Huh, time travel? Not on my watch, get it? Haha, anyway, this is so fricken' fake. FICTION

Flurrie: You know sweetums, I might disagree with you. It sounds like it might have a tint of truth in it. What if that poor Kenny was just a hallucinator the entire time? Hmm, but now that I look, it seems kind of false. FICTION

Luigi: Yes...and his age stayed constant?? That's just puzzling.

Klepto: That mentioning and sights of the Rocky Edges reminds me of my hometown a long time ago.

Luigi: Hmm Klepto, I've noticed that you've never aged before. Oooh, mysterious!

Klepto: That's because I've never been in a game before that shows a younger or an older form of me.

Luigi: Oh yeah, okie dokie, so what you a think Peach?

Peach: Is that story even…possible? Wow, you know what, I just have to say no. It's too much. But amazing story if it's fake. Or if it's real. FICTION

Klepto: I believe it's just truth and all it is. It had potential. FACT

Host: Everyone entered their predictions?

Luigi: Wait! Okay, okay, umm…what the heck, it's not true! Time travel is one of my disbeliefs. FICTION

Klepto: Ahem, you will discover that you've been mistaken later on

Wario: Come on already, let me win the game! Next story, next story. Don't make it absurd this time.

_We'll tell you if this story is fact or fiction at the end of our show. Next, an awful truth is let out from the mouth of a doll, on Beyond Belief._

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**Thanks for reading part 1! If you want to guess whether this story is fact or fiction, you can include it in your review. The next part of this show with a new story will come soon.**


	2. Betty Knows

**Haha, I updated so quickly. Please enjoy this next, mysterious tale. Is it Fact or Fiction?**

* * *

The host is holding an object in his hand, which has long, yellow strands of hair coming down from the top of its head, accompanied with a green silk dress decorated with hearts. 

"This toy has passed down for many generations, originating in the tombs of Egyptians to modern times to the houses and bedrooms of children, especially youthful girls. The resemblance of the toy taking the likeliness of a human creature has made this a popular playing mate for hundreds of years."

"Mrs. Dolletta Parson is a person who has a collective set of these well-known toys. Like almost fifty percent of other doll players, she believes they have the same characteristics of any other human being. Not to mention the fact that she's well over sixty years old. Her maid, Clara, has had almost enough with her passion for the inanimate toys. But is Mrs. Parson actually that irrational?"

* * *

**Betty Knows**

_She was getting even more frustrated. Clara Stevenson was a middle-aged koopa troopa, and was working as a maid for the Parsons for three months. Only eager to be able to earn money, she applied for the job without knowing about the obsession of the woman she would be caring for, along with the supporting husband of hers. Dolletta Parson was sixty-three years old, and at least three times a day, she would be sitting down on her armchair, talking to her lined-up dolls along the top of the fireplace shelf._

_After Clara did her daily cleaning of the house, she would always enter into the living room and see Mrs. Parson, having a doll in her lap and talking to it dearly as it were a human child. It aggravated her so much. _

"Why can't the Parsons just have real children of their own?" she said to herself one night. "That stupid Dolletta is brainwashed. Her name says it all."

Exactly three months after Clara's first day of working, Mr. Parson was having a meeting with an architect in the living room. As he discussed the heavy issues of the further constructing, Mrs. Parson had nothing else to do but pick up the dolls one by one from the shelf, put them in her lap as she sat on her armchair. She patted her head, laughed occasionally, and gave the plush toy kisses for every minute that passed by. Clara was told to dust the shelf with the dolls that afternoon and she was rather upset by the order. As she entered the living room, she looked in disgust at Mrs. Parson, who was still talking to the doll as she gathered the small body into her arms.

"Oh, sweetie," said Mrs. Parson, patting it on her head as if she had won a spelling bee contest. "You're a good girl. Time to go back." She turned to Clara, who was staring at the line of dolls over the fireplace.

"Clara," said Mrs. Parson. "Can you do me a favor and put Charlotte back on the shelf, besides Amy? There's an empty space right there."

"Yes Mrs. Parson," Clara said in a fake tone of enthusiasm. Mrs. Parson smiled as Clara took the doll from her hands. She looked at the doll, Charlotte. What a stupid name. All the dolls had stupid names and stupid looks too. For a moment, Clara couldn't help but have the overpowering feeling of throwing it to the floor and stomping it into shreds, but with two overprotective people present in the room at that moment, she quickly put the doll back in her place.

"Oh my," said Mrs. Parson. "She's leaning forwards. My, Amy's back would become all shaped out like that."

Clara looked back at the doll besides Charlotte, who had her body slumped over at an angle. She wanted to pick up the doll and throw it into the old boo's face. Then start yelling at Mr. Parson about how much of a supporter he was with the irrational behavior of his wife. But she controlled herself.

"Let me just fix that," she said with a smile, and she went to straighten out the small body with her hand holding the duster. As she did so, she tried hiding a satisfying smile on what she was planning to do next. With the end of the duster handle, she voluntarily pushed one of the dolls away from the shelf as the doll plummeted five feet to the carpet floor. As Mrs. Parson gasped and got out of her seat, Clara immediately pretended to look shocked.

"Something the matter, dear?" Mr. Parson asked, looking away from his conversation from the table as he turned around. Mrs. Parson picked up the doll in worry. It was her favorite: Betty.

"I am so sorry!" Clara managed to say in her sorriest voice, "It was an accident because of my own clumsiness."

"Betty darling, are you alright?" the sixty three year old boo said in a panicked voice. "My, my, it's okay. Thank you Clara, she's just all right. Oh, Betty dear, don't worry! You'll be fine, just fine, sweetheart." She cuddled Betty into her hands, as she pulled the string that protruded out from her back. Mrs. Parson always liked Betty best, because as she always said, she was old enough to be able to speak.

"_Hi, I'm Betty. I'm such a good girl," _Betty said in her girly voice.

"Oh, yes you are!" Mrs. Parson cooed back. She pulled the string again.

"_Betty loves Mommy and Daddy very much."_

"And I love you, little sweetheart," Mrs. Parson said in her sweetest tone, before going back to sitting in her chair. She cuddled the doll and gave it a warm hug.

The architect went back to facing Mr. Parson at the table.

"I must say that your wife has a very strong sense of imagination," he said in a low voice. "But doesn't it concern you just…I don't know, just a little?"

"What can I do?" the elderly boo replied. "She's my wife, and whatever she believesin , I believe."

Clara looked at Mrs. Parson, her hands clenched at her sides. She gave her the look of annoyance and anger before heading off from the room.

Tonight, she told herself. Tonight it will end.

* * *

It had just turned nine o'clock at night, and the Parsons were sleeping. Clara picked up Amy from the shelf and bashed her with her fist. She threw it to the floor stomped on it with her sharp stiletto heels. With fury and craziness shadowing over her mind, she grabbed five dolls, a fourth of the collection Mrs. Parson had, and threw it into the blazing fire she had created in the fireplace a minute ago. She smiled, her eyes starting to tear and swell up from the heat as she saw the precious dolls of the old lady turn into wasted cloth, then into ashes. She picked up Charlotte. 

"Oh, little sweetie heart," she said in her sweetest voice. "I love you, I love you…GO TO HELL!" She spat in its face and threw the doll into the blazing fire as well, watching it melt with satisfaction. She then saw Betty.

"Betty darling, I was so sorry you almost died this afternoon because of my own recklessness," she said in her sweet voice once again. She spotted a pair of scissors on the side table right besides her, and she picked it up with her hand. As she went to pick up Betty from the shelf, she pulled her string.

"_I love you very much," _Betty said.

"And I hate you!" Clara screamed at the top of her voice. She held the pair of scissors high above her, ready to strike into the doll's body and rip it into nothing but torn up shreds.

"Stop!" cried a voice from behind her. Clara froze, dropping the pair of scissors on the floor as she turned around at lightning speed. It was Mr. Parson, looking at her with an astonished look on his face.

"Uh, Mr. Parson!" she said in a quick voice. "I was just straightening things out! Just finishing the dolls and putting them back---"

"No, Clara," he said, his voice cold and distressed at the same time. "No. I saw what you had done." Clara looked back at him with a stunned look on her face.

"Turn off the fire," he demanded. "My wife will be upset with you. I will give you the paycheck for this month, but I tell you, I highly suggest you use it for professional help."

"What?" Clara said in a quiet gasp.

"You're fired, Ms. Stevenson," he said. "I want you to leave this house. Tonight."

"But…but…" she stammered. Her face suddenly fell to the look of rage, and she threw the doll that she was holding at Mr. Parson, who stepped back in alarm and caught it. She headed out of the room.

Within thirty minutes Clara had her bag of luggage besides her, and with only looking back at Mr. Parson once, she went out through the garage door and slammed it behind her. The elderly boo looked out the window and saw her car exit from the garage door and enter into the street. Once he saw that, he was sure she was gone. He went back upstairs to go to bed.

With Betty in his hand, he placed her on the bed between him and his sleeping wife. Without a sound, he turned off the lampshade and went to bed.

_Mr. Parson was sure that Clara had left for good. But she didn't. She stole the keys from the counter in the house for the garage door and entered back inside the house. She unpacked her luggage, as if she had never been planning to leave the place for at least the next year. She got the remaining dolls lying on the shelf and put them in an organized fashion above the fireplace. Then she went upstairs, into the room where Mr. and Mrs. Parson were sleeping. She took the cyanide bottle from her pocket, and poured doses inside of each of their open mouths. She left the bottle, open, in the hand of Mrs. Parson, and left the room. From this way, she thought, they'll be no suspecting of anything else except suicide. Nobody knew anything. She went downstairs as the clock struck twelve. The elderly couple was dead._

_But she was wrong. Someone had seen the entire thing._

* * *

"An elderly boo couple, the husband fifty-seven, and the wife sixty-three," the police officer explained. "Seems nothing else but suicide. Took their own lives with cyanide; a bottle of it was found in the wife's hand." 

"Yup, got it," the detective said. "So they were discovered 7:00 this morning by…who?"

"The koopa troopa maid, her name is Clara Stevenson," the officer explained. "Hey, how about if you don't mind talking to her about this? She's in the living room of the house, but she seems quite distraught."

"Right away," the detective said, and he followed the order.

He found Clara, who was sitting on one of the wooden rocking chairs with a look of grief on her face. The detective took a seat besides her on another one of the chairs.

"I know this might be a hard time, Ms. Stevenson," he explained to her, "But I want you to tell me as much as you know about the Parsons and your relationship with them."

She looked up, tears still visible in her eyes. "I was with them for three months, as a maid. They were the best people I've ever met in my entire life. Even better then my own parents. I loved them dearly, as they loved me. Mr. Parson was the easiest person I had ever met. He never got mad. Mrs. Parson was the most sane, caring woman. She was like a second mom…" The tears suddenly came pouring, as she put her hands over her face.

"I'm sorry for this hard time," the detective said compassionately. "I just need to know one more thing. How were the Parsons?"

"They," Clara said between sniffs, "They were so unhappy. So old. They would always be talking about how difficult their lives were. It troubled me these few months, and I once told Mr. Parson that he and his wife needed to seek professional help."

The detective had told Clara to follow him to the bedroom, the last place the Parsons had spent their lives in. The bodies and bottle of potassium cyanide were taken away, but everything else remained untouched.

"_Heck, this is obviously an easy case," _the detective thought. _"I can't help but feel the need to write 'suicide' on the case file. This is a waste of time." _

Clara stepped up besides him as the detective simply looked around the room, observing everything he could. The room was the room anyone could have dream of. It had a plush carpet floor, a king size bed, and fancy cabinets littered in the right spots.

"All this, not to mention the entire, elaborate house, and they still decided to take their own lives?" he asked Clara.

"I could never imagine it," she said, still sniffing from her crying.

"But Mr. Parson had just hit a jackpot in the stock market, just a few days ago," he said. "Nearly twenty thousand coins was the profit he had made."

"I believe…money never really mattered to him," Clara said quickly.

"And these dolls of Mrs. Parson's," he continued. Clara looked up as he stepped forwards to the bed. The detective had admired the details of the dolls in the living room, and saw one of them in the center of the bed, face up.

"I was told that she took very special care of them, and even talked to them," the detective said with a smile.

"Oh, yes," Clara said, managing to smile herself. "She was such a unique person. That one is Betty, on the bed."

The detective reached forwards and grabbed the doll, bouncing it lightly in his hands. He noticed the string on the back, and he pulled it.

"_Mommy and Daddy, I love you very much" _the doll spoke.

"Oh," the detective said in an interested voice. "How cute." Clara smiled.

"_No, please don't hurt Mommy and Daddy, Ms. Stevenson!"_

The detective froze, and turned to Clara. She had sunk back into the wooden chair she was sitting in, her face pale and stricken with fear.

"I…" she stammered. "I don't understand! Why did she say such a thing?" The detective could do nothing else but pull the string again, his fingers trembling the slightest bit.

"_Please Ms. Stevenson; don't put that stuff in their mouths!"_

"What the hell are you saying?" demanded Clara, grabbing the doll from the detective's hands as all he did was stand in shock. He watched Clara, a face of rage displayed on her face.

"_Don't lie, Ms. Stevenson, be a good lady," _the doll said.

"What am I lying about?!" Clara nearly screamed, tears of terror appearing in her eyes. "Bad Betty! You're the one lying! BAD BETTY!"

"_Why did you kill them Ms. Stevenson?"_

"I…I…" She held the doll with both hands, looking at her straight in the face. Clara's face of rage and terror suddenly matched the one she had displayed in the living room, except this time, the feelings were real as tears streamed down her face once again.

"What else could I do, Betty? What else could I have done? They fired me!" She started to sob, her shoulders trembling as she took a sharp object that represented a small knife from the counter, and she raised it above Betty. The detective slowly walked over to Clara and took the knife away, along with the doll on the floor

"Ms. Stevenson, I think we'll need the doll at the evidence exhibit at court."

* * *

"Did this story really happen? Why was the doll speaking all about the murder, as if she were a living human? Perhaps a prankster at the factory who created the doll made the strange messages built inside the toy as a joke. But why were the words never heard before, until that very moment? And why did the doll use the word 'Ms. Stevenson? Or perhaps, Mr. or Mrs. Parson built in the message themself, in fear of their psychopathic maid. Not likely, with that fact that the murder so sudden and unexpected by both of them. Or maybe Mrs. Parson was not being irrational after all with her dolls for many years. Perhaps they did contain the characteristics as any other being, especially Betty." 

The host turns the doll in his hands around; there is a string on the back as he pulls it.

"_Mr. Host, I love you very much."_ He smiles and shrugs.

"Could this story be fact, or are we simply just pulling a string of lies on you?"

* * *

Wario: What?! I told the people that I didn't want an absurd story! 

Peach: Umm, this show is called Beyond Belief? None of these stories have logical explanation?

Flurrie: Hey, maybe it might be true. There are still possiblities left undiscovered.

Wario: FICTION

Klepto: Umm, I sensed major flaws throughout that story. Not flaws, really, but just stuff that can't happen. How on Earth could Betty have talked about the killing?

Peach: Well, I myself think it's true.

Wario: What are you, some type of doll player?

Peach: I used to play with dolls when I was five and six years old. I always thought they were real.

Lugi: Ayaya, that story was creepy! The doll talking was just a...I have a fear for dolls to be honest. Anyway, I say a no, in fear of this story being true. Gosh, I hope I'm a right.

Klepto: FICTION

Peach: FACT

Wario: Peach, what the heck?

Flurrie: FACT. You'll see who's right. This story has chances of being true.

Luigi: FICTION. No way.

_You'll find out if this story is true or false at the end of this show. But next, two people who fall in love are closer than they had ever imagined to be, on Beyond Belief, Fact or Fiction_

* * *

**Did this story really happen? What do you think? Stay tuned for the next part of this show.**


	3. The Other Identity

**Story Number 3!**

* * *

The host is standing besides a large metal cabinet, with manila folders and papers stuffed into every shelf of it. He picks one up from the top of the shelf and looks through it. 

"The records of a person's birth can always interest that person, no matter who they are. Look at your Birth Certificate. See the time of your birth, and which hospital you were born in. Even sometimes they have information about the condition of the delivery. But Birth Certificates could also be used for certain confirmations in different areas."

"Kate Wiser is a Yoshi who wants to confirm something about her birth. The problem with her life is that she had always had different attributes and appearances than her very own parents. But as she goes to find more about who she really is, she discovers something deeper than she had ever thought it would be."

* * *

**The Other Identity**

_I was supposed to be happy and worry-free, but I couldn't get it out of my mind. My childhood sweetheart Jason and I were going to be married in two days, and for the preparing we had to go through usual medical tests. I had never known what my blood type was, and when I discovered what it was, it sent me back to my awful thoughts I had always been feeling over the past few years._

"Katie, dear, I don't know how many times I'll need to tell you this, you were _not _adopted," Mrs. Wiser said to her daughter, who was holding a stack of pictures on the couch. Kate looked through the photographs of when she was just an infant. Her parents were always besides her in nearly every picture. She sighed.

"Mom…" Kate started. "When I got those blood results, I suddenly had the urge and the proof to tell you and dad. Look at me! Dad is a blue Yoshi, and you're a yellow. I'm an orange Yoshi."

"You've heard of those mixed breeding cases that occur---"

"Like, one in a thousand chances," Kate replied.

"The chances were much more frequent in the past years, when you were born," her mother pointed out. "Look at those pictures I've shown you, and that's enough to tell you than you've been our one and only biological daughter. When we arrived that day, on that night with the horrific blizzard…it was a blessing for us." She smiled softly, and Kate couldn't help but feel the possibility of whether she was wrong about her parents not being her parents after all. But she remembered the proof, and her thoughts changed.

"You can't forget the numerous pieces of evidence I've seen and known for many years," Kate continued. "A mixed breed case had never occurred in the past generation of either of you or dad's family trees. My whole family, grandpa, my cousins, and even the both of you, are all short. Look how much taller I am than all of you guys. Both dad and you are good at sports, and I have no skill in them. I've been a talented musician since my first years of life up to today and forever, while you both have no skills in anything related to music. And just this morning, I was found to have a B blood type. Both of you have a type A."

"Oh, honey," Mrs. Wiser said, as she bit her lip in concern for her daughter's thought. She wanted Kate to stop thinking about such stuff, especially when they weren't at all near to the truth. All the possibilities Kate had just told her had changed her mind no bit. She knew that Kate was the baby whom she had given birth to on the night of January 12, 1984. She had to think of something to tell her, and she tried her best to make it sound as truthful as it could possibly sound.

"I wanted to tell you earlier…that I had received a phone call from the doctor who had visited this morning," she said. "He made a mistake about your blood type, and switched it with another patient by mistake. It was an error."

Katie looked at her mother. Although her words may have sounded convincing to others, she knew all about how her mother told her usual lies. Or by what she believed in at that moment, she knew all about the ways and techniques that Mrs. Wiser used to tell her persuasive lies.

* * *

"Katie, I think the best thing to do is somehow get over it," Jason said to her at the morning table. It was the next day, at nine o'clock in the morning. Katie had nearly gotten any sleep the previous night, thinking about everything. Her fiancé looked and talked to her gently as they discussed her issue. 

"You're still not trusting your own parents?" he asked her. Jason Domneri was a green Yoshi, who had lived in the town district of Sueech Tworoo for nearly his entire life. He had met Kate during their high school years, and he and Kate were scheduling their wedding the next day and were both so anticipated and happy for it. But seeing his sweetheart so down and worry-stricken made his energetic feelings go down, as he began to consider whether they should reschedule the wedding or not for another later day.

"I still believe I'm adopted," she explained to him, "After all this evidence I had been collecting for years. I called the doctor this morning and told him to tell me about my blood results. I was in fact a type B. What was the reason for her to lie last night? Is there some, like, deep family secret to keep away from me?"

"Okay," said Jason. "Does it affect you, if they're not really your parents or not? It won't make any difference. They love you, and you love them."

"Well," Kate said, pondering the thought for a quick moment. "Yes it does. I mean, the pictures can't prove anything. I may have been adopted at birth. I need to know the truth"

"The truth doesn't matter," he told her. "They're great parents, and I'll be so happy to have such supportive parent-in-laws, unlike poor Billy Hitchcock." They both laughed, remembering another one of their past friends.

"I would still love my parents even if they weren't my biological parents at all, because there would be no difference. And they'll be playing the musical band at our wedding tomorrow, when they can finally meet your parents for the first time." He paused.

"When we have children, your parents will still be the best grandparents they could have. So what if they're not your biological parents, so what?"

"So what?" Katie asked, repeating his words again with. "It can't just be a simple 'So what'. This thing will never pass me and become forgotten. I can't…go on without knowing my history. I'm sorry…I need to know about myself before I get married." They just both sat down at the table, both having different feelings at the same time. Jason bit his lip, a common thing for him to do when he was caught in a difficult situation.

"Honey," he said, "We're together now. It's our destiny to be together. Nothing could change that now."

"I know," she said, looking up at him. "I loved you, since that day I saw you on that football team, and I thought you were the most athletic person I had ever seen in my entire life, unlike me. We were both…born on the same day, January 12. Same day babies. We were those two who had so much in common." She suddenly looked down.

"What if I was adopted?" she said to him. "My birthday wouldn't be January 12. That special birthday touch we share together probably doesn't exist at all, does it?"

"How about this," said Jason finally, standing up from his chair, "We're going to solve your mystery today and end your worries."

"But how?" Kate asked him, getting up from her chair as well.

"We'll get as much proof from the hospital as we can and solve the truth about your history, all in one day…together." Katie slowly nodded, and they shared a kiss, a kiss of hope. She needed to know.

* * *

"Well, this is it," the lady at the front desk of the hospital said. She had led Kate and Jason to a room full of metal cabinets and shelves, with hundreds of folders in each area stacked as neatly as possible, though the neatness had failed to keep its look over the time. 

"This is where all the files before 1990 and after 1950 are stored, these papers," she explained, "Before the technology of the computer was invented. Now we store everything, records, birth info, and etcetera, all on the computer. Don't be messing with stuff that's not yours, not that it matters. You've been the first people wanting to visit this room for about five years."

"Thank you," said Kate, as she turned away to look at the numerous folders all over the large room.

"Just call me if you need any help on anything." With that, the lady left the record room.

_We searched for over two hours, searching for any sign for the name Kate Wiser. It was barely alphabetized, and everything was just disorganized. I knew that Jason was approaching the urge to quit, but he was trying his best efforts just to make me happy. That's one of the reasons I had fallen in love with him. He would always be helping others with things irrelevant to his own life, but now that I know, it wasn't irrelevant to him after all. I was determined as well, to find my birth record, and to know the truth. Then, Jason called to me from the other side of the room. He had found a manila folder with my name on it._

"Kate Wiser," he said. He opened the folder, and there was the certificate.

_Birthday Certificate _

_Kate Wiser_

"Wait, wait," Kate said, and she turned the page. There was a remaining page left about all the info on Kate's birth, and her eyes scanned the page as quickly as she could. She needed to see the words, and the proof.

"Parents," she read, and then read the words underneath. "Patrick and Jenna Wiser." Her face suddenly became relieved as she and Jason looked at each other.

"And look at this," he said suddenly, pointing out on another part of the paper. "Date of birth, time admitted to emergency room, and time of delivery."

"So I'm not adopted after all," Kate said quietly, as a smile appeared on her face. Jason had the same expression as he wrapped his hands around her; they had figured out the truth.

"Now your history is all resolved," he told her gladly. "You are their biological daughter. Relieved now?" But Kate's eyes were focused on something else on the birth record that had caught her eye.

_I thought everything was determined and figured out, but something on the paper had caught my eye under the gender section. On the line, 'Boy' was written, but crossed out and had 'Girl' written besides it. Something seemed odd about it that I just couldn't keep my finger on._

"Why is there a crossed-out 'boy' written next to 'Girl'?" she asked him. "Look, right there."

Jason laughed. "Are you suggesting the fact that you had possibly had a sex change?" he said in a doubtful voice. "You look 100 percent girl to me." Kate's face still looked confused and suspicious.

"What's so wrong with that?" said Jason, not picking up at what she was concentrated on. "They just made a mistake and crossed it out to change it to a girl."

"I…I don't think we're done yet," she said. "Let me get that lady at the front desk."

* * *

The assistant at the front desk decided to help the two of them in the file room, having nothing to do at that time. Kate explained as much as she had discovered to her. 

"Its says 'Boy' then crossed out and then they wrote 'Girl'," Kate explained, pointing at the file paper.

"Oh, I now just remembered," the lady suddenly said, who was around the age of fifty. "In the year of 1984, January 21, that horrible blizzard night. I was a nurse that day, and my, it was so flustering. Four mothers with babies to deliver came that night. You were lucky you made it there, although it is strange that your mom gave birth to you in the emergency room."

"That's because my mother had barely made it in time," Kate told her, "And there was also another delivering in the emergency room at the same time. But I'm wondering about this; why does my gender have a crossed-out 'Boy'"

"Well," the lady said, "It's rather unimportant in my opinion. Perhaps one of the nurses wrote boy by accident, while the doctor corrected it. Just simple."

"But look at this," said Jason, getting another manila folder from the shelf. There was a faded name on it, the marker writing on the cover being too scratched to read. When he opened the folder, there was just one piece of paper visible; the record info of another baby.

"This person was born the same day and at the same time in the emergency room, exactly the same place and time my fiancé was delivered."

"And look at this," Kate pointed out. She pointed to under the Gender section of the other file, and underneath, 'Girl' was written and crossed out, and besides it was the word' Boy'.

"This baby boy who was born on the same day as me has the opposite type of mistake," she pointed out. "This has to mean something."

The lady pondered the fact before talking. "Well," she said. "Obviously, it could have just been a small mix up. The record papers were probably switched between you and the other baby, before the necessary corrections were made."

_Suddenly, it all made sense. I couldn't believe I hadn't of considered it before. Could it be, with all the evidence I finally had? Could it be possible?_

"Is it possible," Kate said, her voice becoming more certain, "It is possible that it wasn't the record papers that were switched, but…the ones switched were the babies?"

The lady suddenly stopped moving and looked up at her. Her eyes were wide, and her expression was stunned in place as she looked at Kate in alarmed uneasiness. Kate and Jason exchanged glances.

Before another word could be said, Jason saw something behind the record info of the other baby. It was another page, the Birth Certificate of the baby in the emergency room that night, that none of them had ever spotted before. As the three of them looked at the name in silence, they couldn't imagine the impossible truth.

_Birthday Certificate_

_Jason Domneri_

* * *

The host is holding a birth certificate in his hand. It is the one of Mr. Domneri, the green yoshi. 

"Can it have been possible? Could Kate and Jason really have been switched at birth, living with the other one's biological parents the entire time? If yes, what would have been the chances of love happening between the two of them later on? Switches at birth have taken place a number of times around the world, but when mixed with the story of future romance, it brings out something more unimaginative. Is this tale about the two lovers who turned out to be closer then they had ever thought they would be a true fact, or does the records match that with the writings of a creative mind?"

* * *

Peach: Wooah. That's just very surprising. 

Klepto: Awkward, if you would ask me. And pretty far-fetched.

Luigi: I would a hate that to happen to me! Me and a Daisy, being switched at birth!

Flurrie: Hmm Wario, I guess this story fits a little bit more on the saner side of the world, doesn't it?

Wario: Too easy of a coincidence! Bah, the parents probably manipulated them to fall in love with each other, then they would be like, 'Oh my gosh, your parents my parents omg!' Bwahhaha!

Flurrie: Well, I think it's made up, cause fate and stuff is just all wrong. Hmm hmm hmm!

Wario: FACT

Flurrie: FICTION

Luigi: This is way too far-fetched, and I think it has those points of a story to be made up, but who knows? Ayaya! FICTION

Peach: Impossible, but still possible! FACT

Klepto: Yes, this doesn't involve anything supernatural happening, or did fate play its way between them? I take chances with FACT

_We'll tell you which stories tonight are true, and which are fiction at the end of tonight. Next, a painting on a wall spreads failure, on Beyond Belief, Fact or Fiction._

* * *

**Oh, and please do not mind a review! The next story will arrive...before your salvation.**


	4. Curse of Hatched Huts

The host is holding a framed painting in his hands, a painting that reaches both ends of his stretched arms. It displays a sunny piece of land, with houses on the island accompanied with a setting sun behind the horizon of the water.

"Paintings can always have a meaning to it, whether it's intentional or not. A painting of a desert cliff with a leaf perched at the edge of it can be signifying fragile hope. A drawing of a woman, hands in front of her with a diminutive smile at the corner of her mouth, could signify the mysterious and deceptive. And meanings can be interpreted in any way a person wants it to be. Perhaps the Mona Lisa is thought to have the meaning of hidden loneliness or forecasting revenge."

He puts the painting in his hands against the wall and hangs it.

"What does this picture imply to you? Nothing much could be said about it, except to mention words such as 'mellow' or 'tranquil'. However, the real copy of the painting had been owned by the Anwhistle family. According to Clear Anwhistle, it implies something beyond the picture, beyond the hatched huts on the island. It's gone so beyond that it has exited the edge of the golden frame border and into the very life of her family."

**

* * *

**

**Curse of Hatched Huts**

_It wasn't until two days after Grandma had moved in with us when I had noticed something was different. She was an old lady almost seventy years old, and my grandfather had died three years ago, leaving her a widow for quite a while by herself. After the rent costs in her own apartment was raised too much for her to handle, she had moved in with us into our average house located on the outskirts of a nearby city. _

_I was only a sixteen year old paratroopa, helping my father as much as I could with the choirs around the house. He worked a full time job as an employee of this metal company, and this was the hardest month for him so far. His boss was losing success in his finance and was threatening to fire some of his workers. All I could do was do my best in school and try not to disappoint my father. He never expects me to become anything successful, but both he and I think that my future career might bring the chances of later optimism for our family._

"Clear," said Mr. Anwhistle, as his daughter and him were sitting on the city bus two years prior. "I know you're trying your best in school. In fact, too hard." Clear looked at him, her face ambiguous.

"Even when it's your free time and you're free to do whatever you want, you study instead of going out to have fun with your friends. I know that you're worried about not becoming anything when you grow up, but I don't expect you to be anything outstanding or over the top."

"I'm just worried about us," Clear said, looking up at her father. "About you, with your job. I'm making us ready for the future."

"My job is all in good hands," he replied. "The future is nothing to worry about. There are always opportunities along the way." He smiled at his daughter, who smiled back as she leaned against his shoulder on that rainy night.

_When my grandmother moved in, I could only assume that my grandmother brought in a painting of hers from her apartment. I noticed it two days after, positioned on the wall in the living room. It was a large painting with a golden frame border that had an odd texture, about four feet long and two feet wide. It displayed a piece of green land with straw huts in a small village. It seemed to be that the huts were on an island because in the horizon, a line of water was present below the sun that was setting._

_As grandma was just getting used to living with us for the first week, I didn't bother to ask her about it. The painting was a fabulous touch to our little living room, in fact, after I noticed it on the wall, I discovered that it was in fact the best part of our living room, aside from the piano we received from my great grandfather years ago._

_And then one day, as I was doing my usual studying on the living room table, I heard a noise._

**KATHUMP!**

_The sound startled me a lot as I turned around to see the painting face-up on the floor. I looked at the back of it and didn't see any marks or dents from the five foot plummet it had taken seconds before. But when I grabbed it into my hands, I felt some strange, unusual energy in me that seemed to control my very own hands. It was as if the painting was trying to absorb energy from me, and I put it back on the floor in confusion. As I attempted to pick the painting up again, everything felt normal as I proceeded to hang it back up. It was a heavy job for me, but I couldn't stop trembling as I placed the horizontal piece of wire on the back of the painting onto the hook in the wall._

_That night, I couldn't stop thinking about the painting. Why was I so nervous about a painting on the wall that had dropped? The thing that bothered me the most was when I remembered that awkward feeling I felt in my hands as I grabbed it, and it had made me feel so weak._

* * *

_Then the next Tuesday morning my father came to the breakfast table with an envelope, which had my name and school printed on the outside of it. The letter seemed too unreal._

"Excessive low grading score on AP exam?" Clear exclaimed in disbelief. "This can't be. And they're saying that I need to take a summer school class."

"Honey, that's what it says," her father pointed out, his eyes full of confusion at his daughter's grade test result. "It's what the results say right here."

"Clear, didn't you tell me that you studied all month for this big exam?" her grandmother questioned. "What had gone wrong?"

"I'm sure of how well I did," Clear stated. "Almost every single question seemed so easy and known to me. But getting only thirty percent of the test correct is beyond what I expected."

"Maybe you were just too tired that day," her father said. "And mistakes aren't impossible, honey."

"Oh dear," Clear's grandmother remembered. "If you have to go to summer school, then you can't help us in the volunteer work in Rougeport this summer."

"No, dad," Clear said, her voice becoming filled with fear. "This can't be possible. I know I didn't fail this test."

_On Wednesday, my father and I went early to my high school and talked with the assistant principal. My skeptics and disbelief was right. There was a record mistake with twenty other students during the grade scoring, and the percentages were decreased by sixty percent. However, it was lucky my father had come with me that day. The sad part was that the grades would count for the twelve other students that failed to recognize the grade mistake before June 2. We had just met the deadline that Monday, and my accurate grade was saved at the last minute. We were lucky then with the fact that I could help my family on their trip to help Rougeport, but it wouldn't be soon till the more shadowy things would occur._

_It wasn't until the next day during the afternoon, as my father and I were walking to the kitchen for dinner, when the painting fell again._

**KATHUMP!**

"What on Earth was that?" Clear's father asked in alarm, looking around him to see anything that might have fallen. Clear immediately looked at the painting in the living room, and just as she expected, it was on the floor.

"That painting," Clear said, as the two of them made their way behind the couch to the painting on the floor. It was facing up, the painting looking as new as ever.

"I've never seen this before in our house," Mr. Anwhistle said in surprise. "Did you put this painting on the wall?"

"No, I thought it was either you who put it here," Clear replied. "Or grandma."

"Then it's most likely Grandma," her father said. "Please do me a favor and put it back up, because Grandma needs her medications right now."

_As my father darted out of the room to give Grandma her medications she had missed at noontime, I looked back at the painting. I had a strange feeling going through me, with the fact that two days prior the exact same thing had happened with the painting falling. As I picked up the painting from the ground, there was that weakening feeling again that seemed to drain the blood from my hands. I grabbed onto the bronze border of the painting on both sides, and lifted it into the air, but then suddenly my bones seemed to collapse as I dropped the painting again. I couldn't help but let out a small shriek as I fell backwards onto my back._

"Clear, are you okay?" Mr. Anwhistle said in concern as he ran out from the kitchen.

"Yeah, Dad," she said, getting back up to her feet as she looked at the painting on the ground. "I just dropped it carelessly."

"Well, don't be so careless," her father told her. "Go off to do your homework as I'll just put this up real quick…" He bent down to get the painting into his hands, but Clear immediately stopped him from doing so as she grabbed the large painting into her own hands.

"No, it's fine," said Clear, trying to on a straight face as she felt the odd feeling go through her hands. "I think Grandma needs you." Her father gave her a look of slight confusion before he nodded and headed off. Clear turned around and hung the painting onto the hook on the wall. It was a common hanging technique, with a piece of wire going horizontally across the back of the painting that was hooked into the hook placed into the wall, hanging the painting in the air.

_If the painting fell, I thought, then how could the hook be so securely fastened into the wall? Why wouldn't the wire have snapped off? There was now way the painting would have fallen off without the breaking of the wire or the hook._

_That night, there was more than usual talking from the living room. It was my father, but it wasn't possible for him to be talking so expansively to my grandma. As I went down to get my usual glass of water for bed, I saw my father having a great deal of talking on the phone, his voice getting louder and louder each minute. As he hung up after a time that seemed like half an hour, he turned to face me, a look of misery on his face that I wouldn't forget. _

"The boss at the Metal Factory," he said. "He fired me."

* * *

_I fell asleep almost immediately from disbelief, and woke up the next morning for school. I felt so sad and miserable for my father as I walked to school on the Friday morning. He couldn't be fired, because there was no reason for him to. But he was, and I was looking ahead into the future we would be facing. I prayed that my father would find a new job as soon as possible. A part of me didn't want to go back home and see him again in his depressed mood._

_Luckily for me, I had to walk Grandma to the bus station right after school was finished. My mind raced with the questions I wanted to ask her about the painting she had hung up. Strange things seemed to be going on with it since the day I had discovered it._

"It's on the eight stop, on a street called Montrose Street," Clear reminded her as the two of them were sitting on the bus station bench.

"Thank you for reminding me," her grandma said, "But I think I've got it engraved into my brain already. I've been repeating it so many times in my head over and over again."

"Hey," Clear started, "I really like that painting in the living room you hanged up."

"The…painting?" her grandmother said, looking at her while she went up to rub the middle of her neck.

"Yes, the painting in the living room," said Clear, "The one with the island with the huts on it, and it has a bronze-like frame around it."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she replied. "I haven't done anything to the house since Sunday."

"But it has to be yours," Clear pointed out. "Neither Dad or I had ever seen it before, and two days after you arrived I spotted it.

"Well," her grandma said, "I believe you're either wrong or mistaken. I did not bring a painting with me or hang anything up anywhere. Perhaps your father did it without telling you."

"But he said---" Clear stopped talking as her grandmother gave her strange look. Her look seemed to have confusion in it, but at the same time it seemed as if she was telling Clear to stop telling her about the painting in the living room. The bus appeared in front of them in rapid timing as Clear's grandmother stepped on.

"I'll see you later," she said, blowing a kiss before turning to pay the driver. Clear sighed in disappointment as the bus made its way slowly to the city.

_It was obvious that Grandma had brought the painting in with her when she moved in, but I was wondering the fact of why she was so bothered with the mentioning of it. I wanted to tell you father all about it and tell him about the strange things that had been happening with the painting, but I didn't expect to see what I saw when I entered the house._

"Dad?" Clear called out. She walked slowly into the living room, but then ran in panic towards the figure of her father lying down on the ground. The painting was on the wall, still and unmoving.

"Dad!" Clear said in a panicked voice. "Dad! Get up!" Almost immediately, his eyes started to open as Clear pulled him up to his feet. She didn't keep her eyes off from the painting as her father dusted the lint off from his jacket.

"What happened?"

"I don't know," he said, "But I remember going to the painting again which had fallen. I remember hanging it back up, and then…there was such a bizarre feeling in my hands when I held it in the air…"

"I felt that bizarre feeling too!" Clear told him. "There's something really wrong with this painting. It keeps on falling, and bad things happen to us!"

"Clear," his father said in a confused tone, "What are you talking about?"

"On Monday the painting fell," she started, "Then the next day, the failed grades appeared in the mail, but we fixed that. The second time it fell was when I was with you yesterday, and then that night, you were…were fired from your job."

"Listen," her father said, not convinced by what she had explained to him. "It's just a coincidence. If you think that every time the painting falls then something bad happens, then I think you're getting too much into this kind of stuff."

"But Grandma is denying she put it there!" Clear pointed out. "I know she knows something about it, but she pretended not to know anything when I asked her. It's as if she's hiding some sort of secret."

"Clear," her father said. "I'll take care of this now, while you go study for the test you have for tomorrow."

"I won't go," she said firmly, "Unless you remove that painting from our house.

"There's nothing---"

**KATHUMP!**

The father and daughter jumped and held onto each other deadly as the painting besides them fell to the wooden flooring, facing up. Clear looked at her father and saw his face, surprised with an agape mouth. She stepped back away from the picture on the ground.

"I told you, there's something wrong!" Clear said, almost to herself as if she was confirming the supernatural fact. "Dad, call Grandma now and demand an answer." She said it as if she were ordering her father a command. Clear's father immediately went to the phone and dialed for his mother, as Clear looked at the painting in shock. She was convinced there was something living in it that couldn't be seen.

"Hello?" her father said, talking on the phone as his face went puzzled. "I'm the son of her, yes. Isn't this her phone? Oh…Dr. Andres? …What? Oh…okay. I'll wait here when you come back…" He turned to look at Clear, who looked back at him in fear and worry.

"Who did you call?" Clear asked, stricken with fear as she looked at him, baffled. "Was that Grandma?"

"It was a doctor," he told her. "He told me that Grandma was sent to the hospital after she suffered from a sudden heart failure."

* * *

_We were going to visit Grandma the next morning. But before heading off, we brought the painting with us, which was still flat on the ground from yesterday afternoon. My father literally shoveled it up with a broom into a wagon, and we put the wagon into the trunk of the car. Neither he or I wanted to feel the draining feeling in our hands again. I was sure that the painting was causing our bad luck. We wanted to get it removed from us or destroyed as soon as possible, before anything else could occur._

_On the way to the hospital we stopped by an artist expert's office. He owned a small art gallery across from the street, so Dad expected him to know about the painting of Grandma's we had with us. I wanted know everything about the origin of the drawing, and what it was called and who the artist was. I knew Grandma's heart failure wasn't just a simple coincidence, along with the other misfortunes we had during the week, and by the end of the day, I would understand everything about the painting's history. It would be closer to us then we ever thought it would be._

"And this had no name?" Mr. Hera questioned curiously.

"All we know is that my grandmother brought it in with us," Clear explained. "Some…stuff had been happening with us during this week, but we never thought of looking at the name."

"Well, it doesn't have a name," the artist said. "But you said 'Stuff'. What do you mean by stuff?"

"Some strange stuff happens with the painting," Mr. Anwhistle explained. "It keeps on falling, but we always put it in properly and hang it on the hook every time. And my daughter and I observe some bad stuff happening after every time it falls. When we touch it, we feel unusually weak. I just don't know what to say."

"Do you know anything about this painting to tell us about?" Clear asked hopefully.

"I'm surprised _you're _not telling me something about this drawing," he replied.

"What do you mean?" asked Clear, baffled.

"Perhaps you're not into the artistic works, but almost every artist or person in an art museum will recognize this painting, always in pictures. The painting is called Hatched Huts by an Island."

"Hatched huts by an island," Clear's father repeated. "Can you tell us about it?"

"Well, not much is known," Mr. Hera said, "But people still question whether it exists or not, and you've answered the question right in my office. It's an unfinished piece of work, and was guarded and kept preciously by the artist who never got to finish his last touches to the painting. He committed suicide later on."

"Committed suicide," Clear said, and then something was suddenly remembered in her mind that she had learned about in school the previous day. "That, that painting! It's drawn by Ludweg Van Gough!"

"I believe this is the genuine copy," said Mr. Hera in an amazed voice. "Since that day it was stolen by Skinner 'Skipper' Anwhistle over a hundred years ago, I can't believe you actually found it! It's probably worth hundreds of thousands of coins!"

"Wait, did you say Anwhistle?" Clear asked in a surprised tone.

"Yes, Skipper Anwhistle was the known theft who fled with it after the death of Van Gough. Some say that Ludweg's spirit still hides in the unfinished piece of work, putting a curse on him for the rest of the life. I'm not really into that superstitious stuff, and can gladly take this off your hands at an auction."

_We left Mr. Hera's office and told him to keep it for the auction scheduled tomorrow. Skipper Anwhistle? Could he possibly be some relative of ours? As my father and I stared in stunned silence at each other as we exited the building, we got the horrifying news that marked the end of our family curse. _

_Grandma's life support system had failed, and had died just minutes after we left the office. Mr. Hera had hung the painting on the wall when we had left, only for it to fall seconds later. It shattered into pieces, and the curse was gone._

* * *

"Was the Anwhistle family really cursed by the unfinished painting of Van Gough's? Van Gough's last words to his family was reported as, 'My works are yours only, and for yours only to have.' What was the reason for Clear and her dad to feel a sort of draining power every time they touched it? How do you explain the painting falling off from the wall numerous times, even though it was hanged correctly? If it wasn't, then why did misfortune occur every time it fell? Could it have been just a simple coincidence? But then when tracking down the family tree of Clear, it was discovered that her great great grandfather had indeed stolen the unfinished piece of work from Van Gough. The Anwhistles believed that once Grandma, the last member of their family who knew the truth and trickery of the painting passing through the generations, had died, the curse was finally lifted, however, not before making its final blow. Is this story of the family who was cursed by the legendary artist true or false? Take your choice, but don't fall for the wrong answer." 

The counterfeit painting of Hatched Huts by an Island suddenly drops from the wall; a part of the frame chips off as it impacts with the flooring.

---------------------------------------

Flurrie: I don't believe in curses!

Luigi: Or maybe the whole a thing could have been a coincidence, with the painting falling and bad stuff happening right a after, and with their relative being the stealer of Van Gough's painting, and a...oh. It's pretty much too much of a coincidence then.

Klepto: I think it's real, because curses exist all around the world.

Wario: Wah! My ass! FICTION

Flurrie: That was rather random, sweetums.

Klepto: FACT

Peach: Hmm, I'm skeptical about this. Could this have really happened to a family?

Luigi: Well, I think this is a real. Just one of my a beliefs that it happened. So I say…

Wario: Hurry! Put fiction!

Klepto: Believe its fact!

Luigi: Ayayaya…FACT

Flurrie: Let's see you be wrong at the end. FICTION

Peach: I'll go with first instincts. Yes, I thought it was fact. FACT

Host: Sorry VIP members. Did I mention that whoever gets the most incorrect predictions at the end of the show also gets a "reward"?

All: Huh??

Host: It's called the "Skeptic's Sentence". Or if they got more false stories wrong, it's "Truster's Torture". They vary every episode.

Flurrie: Hmm, then I should have been extra careful in my previous submissions.

Peach: Are we allowed to go back and change one of our choices? Cause I thought story 2 was true, and I---

Host: Sorry for not telling about this earlier, and no, it's already in.

Peach: Sigh...

Luigi: Okie dokie, waiting for our last tale.

_We'll tell you the truth about this story at the end of tonight. Next to come, a friend comes up from the dead to play another game of pawns and knights, on Beyond Belief, Fact or Fiction._

* * *

**What did you think of this story? As you decide, the next story will come soon...make your move!**


	5. Let's Play Chess

**Final story!**

* * *

The host is sitting down on a wooden chair, with a wooden table in front of him. The chessboard on the table is set up with its playing pieces, as he moves his black pawn forwards. 

"Boards like these are being played these days like crazy. Of course, chess is known as the relaxing, care free, quiet game to play on lazy afternoons. That's if a fight doesn't break out determining whose turn it is. But its popularity has brought the quick-witted game into world wide championships and has made it into a classic activity."

"Jose the goomba invites his dear friend Wendell over to his house every Sunday afternoon to play chess, and after twenty years, they still don't know all of each other's moves. Many need the skill and knowledge to play this familiar game. But most of all, spirit is the key to having fun, no matter the results. However, according to Jose and his wife, spirit had gone to a new term for them."

* * *

**Let's Play Chess**

_I love Sunday afternoons. I could have all the cooking time I needed. I would never actually cook anything classic or common, but I would be experimenting new tastes and recipes I could share with a few of my other friends._

_But the best part was just having the usual company of Wendell and my husband Jose, playing on the outdoor balcony with a chess board in the middle of them. _

"Wendell," Jose said, "I think my luck hasn't worn off from last week. Let's see if that's true."

"I'm afraid you might be disappointed," Wendell replied, as they both got up from the table and headed towards the balcony door.

"Have a good game, you two!" Mrs. Gimmons called out from the other room. "Oh, and I don't want to get distracted by your fighting this time."

"You can't play chess without having a fight," Jose told her, before they both headed out through the door. Mrs. Gimmons sighed as she went to the kitchen to finish her dishes.

_I don't know how long it's been ago since Wendell had started coming to our house for chess with Jose. It was as if they could never be separated. They were both masters at it. And good quarrelers too. Wendell would drive down from his apartment five miles down the road and they would play for twenty to thirty minutes, playing at least a game or two very time. It's been so repetitive every Sunday, and never had any of the three of us become tired of it._

"Okay," said Wendell, "Now that we're ready, I choose---"

"I know, I know. 'Look at me! I'm Mr. Wendell perfect wanting to go first! I get white pieces!'" Jose mimicked. "Fine Wendell, take the white."

"It's pretty obvious then that you're unaware of the white goes first rule," Wendell said. "So thanks for the offer." Wendell made his first move with no hesitation: he moved the pawn in front of the king two spaces down, resulting in a look of annoyance from Jose.

"King pawn to king four," Jose said, shaking his head. "When will your move ever be different? I want to see just once, I want to see you make _another _different first move besides moving your king pawn up two. I know you win occasionally---"

"Well excuse my moves but---"

"You just don't---"

"You just don't want to remember," Wendell pointed out, straightening into his chair. "I have my wins because of that first move. Make me change it and two hundred coins are yours, José."

"Don't make that 'H' silent whenever you say my name!" Jose told him, and then sniffed the air twice as if he was trying to search for something. "Is that your cheap Shroom Purée cologne on you? Did you bathe in that nasty stuff again?"

"It ain't nasty, it keeps me from having a crazy mind," he argued. "Unlike you, of course."

"At least I don't still have that horrible body odor of yours," Jose argued back.

Wendell sighed heavily and looked at the board. "When in the Mushroom Kingdom will you stop sniffing at me, and, and make your next move before the millennium?"

"You know what, I think you're just distracting me," said Jose in a voice of realization. "You're distracting me from making my next move and also distracting me from thinking!"

"You don't need me to help you not think," Wendell said, and Jose proceeded to make his move on the chess board.

_That sound of two arguing old goombas has replaced the sound of birds chirping in my life. Oh, how I loved those Sunday afternoons._

_It wasn't until the next few hours when Jose picked up the ringing phone. I knew I should have been the one to do it. It was a business partner of Wendell's, who told him what had happened that afternoon Wendell was driving back home from the chess game. Wendell was involved in a fatal car crash and was killed instantly. That saddened look on my husband's face when he hanged up the phone almost broke my heart. I always thought that Jose and Wendell could never be separated, but I was wrong then. His beloved friend Wendell the goomba, was dead._

* * *

_Days passed by. Weeks flew like the wind. A month passed by since that day he received the news. Jose was never the same, and neither was the Sunday afternoons I had always enjoyed. He barely got any sleep, even with the fact that he knew his doctor recommended at least eight hours of rest per night to sustain his healthy metabolism. Sometimes he would go into his bed at midnight and I'd see him at six o'clock in the morning, looking out the window. During the day, he would be sitting in a chair, on the balcony Wendell and he had always played their games. When I would bring him his favorite foods outside to him, I would always take the plate back and see only a few bites taken from his meal. The death of Wendell weighed so much on him, and for some strange reason, Jose blamed himself for his friend's death. I knew it was nonsense. He missed him so much. But on one day, I decided to stop the depressed feeling from taking over my husband as a human._

Mrs. Gimmons stepped outside to the balcony slowly and looked at her husband. He was sitting in the wooden chair he used to sit in every Sunday afternoon, with the plate of untouched food on his lap and the empty table and chair in front of him. She sighed and stepped towards him, as he didn't bother to look up from the floor.

"Jose," she started, "Jose, I understand how painful this can be. But please, you've got to stop doing this to yourself. You've got to stop with this." Jose looked up at his wife with a face that showed all the sadness that had weighed on him the past four weeks. She sighed again, this time sadly.

"I know something that might…be an idea," she said. "How about you and I play chess together?"

"Gloria, I love you," he said in a cheerless voice. "I love you so much. But you know it won't be the same at all. I'll still have that empty feeling in me that can never be filled. It just won't be the same."

"I know it won't be the same," Gloria replied. "And I don't think it ever will. But we'll try it anyway." Her husband slowly nodded as she went to get the game equipment from the room.

_We both emptied the bag full of chess pieces onto the chess board, and something seemed too coincidental. The black and white pieces separated by themselves when they emptied onto the board._

"Isn't that odd?" Gloria wondered, as they started to put their pieces up.

"Yeah, what were the chances?" said Jose. As they were both setting their pieces standing up in their correct positions, Jose suddenly stopped. He sniffed the air, and sniffed again and again. He looked around him before he smelled a familiar odor coming from somewhere around the table.

"Honey," said Jose. "Does it happen to be that you're wearing Shroom Purée?"

"Shroom Purée?" she questioned. "I never wear anything like that. All I put on this morning is my regular Floral Perfume. Isn't Shroom Purée what…?" She stopped talking and looked at Jose, who slowly tilted his head towards Gloria to indicate it was her turn to make her move.

"White goes first," he said.

_What happened after when I made my first move was beyond what I expected._

Gloria sat down straight into her chair and picked up the pawn in front of the bishop, moving it up two spaces. But just as Jose was going to play his turn, he stopped. The pawn Gloria had just moved suddenly moved again, but this time without Gloria touching it. It slid back to its original position ever so slowly, as he and Gloria stared with faces of disbelief.

"What in the world?" Gloria said, her eyes getting wide as she looked down at the board in confusion. Jose stared at the board as well. As they watched in panic, the pawn in front of the king moved slowly, moving its way up two spaces as Jose and Gloria sat in their chairs, stunned. Gloria picked up the bag from the floor slowly.

"There's something definitely wrong here," she said, her voice baffled and bewildered at the same time, "I really think we should put the game away."

"Yes," Jose said slowly. "Yeah, put the game away." As his terrorized wife hurriedly tried to put the pieces back into the leather playing bag, Jose sniffed the air once again. He started to smile.

* * *

_The next day, we hired a paranormal expert to come and visit our house. I just knew something unusual had happened the day before, and she performed a number of extensive tests as Jose and I stood besides her. She did radio tests, samples of the floor and tables, and was even holding a camera to search around the balcony._

"The paranormal," she explained, "Can usually be picked up by video than can't be seen by the naked eye." The expert searched further and further around the base of the table videotaping everywhere she could see. The old couple stood still in curiosity as she continued to search around the area of the balcony.

"My investigations are complete in every way I could possibly think off. I think it's safe to conclude that there is no parapsychic activity or anything like such going on in your place," she said. Gloria lowered her shoulders at ease.

"The only possibility I could think of is that perhaps there was…a slight earth tremor yesterday that shook the table and happened to cause the playing pieces to move around." As Jose looked pleased, Gloria still was unconvinced.

"But how was it that one went back, and another one went forward instead?" Gloria asked her. "There's hasn't been any earth tremors occurring in this town recently."

"Well," the lady said as she went to think of another possibility, "Maybe one of you happened to bump the table accidentally. Do any of you remember hitting the table somehow while you were playing the game?"

None of them said anything, when suddenly Jose changed his face into the look as if he had just realized something important.

"Oh yes," he said in a voice of awareness. "You are absolutely right Doc! I…I think that now that I look back to yesterday, I think I did accidentally bump the leg of the table on my wife's side."

"Oh?" asked the investigator, surprised at Mr. Gimmons sudden recognition.

"Yeah, this makes me feel a lot better," he said. She had nothing else to do but give him a warm smile.

"Well," she said. "If anything else seems to occur that seems somewhat unusual, just don't forget to give me a call and I'll be with you as soon as possible."

"Oh no, no," Jose said, as she got the lady and him facing away from Gloria, who was standing behind them and wondering what Jose was talking about.

"I don't think you'll have to come back here any more," he explained. "It's much useless, and no spirits or anything is around here at all. You know, it's my wife who's the superstitious one, and imagines some pretty weird stuff. But bah! Her imagination is an immense area."

"Well, I'm very glad I was of your assistance," she said, "Best wishes to you, Mr. and Mrs. Gimmons. She went to shake Jose's hand, and then turned around to shake Mrs. Gimmons hand. As she went to walk down the balcony steps, she suddenly turned around to face Jose again.

"You know," she said, smiling, "My brother used to wear Shroom Purée all the time. Is…is that what you have on?"

Gloria put her hand up to her mouth in realization and alarm, but Jose kept his usual attitude as he thought of what to say next.

"Yes, doc, that's right I have on right now." The lady smiled again and headed down the balcony stairs.

* * *

_The investigation of the paranormal expert still didn't ease me up. The strangest thing was how Jose's attitude started to lighten up after one month of complete grief, ever since that time we saw the chess piece mysteriously move. And what also struck me odd was how he wanted the paranormal lady to leave the house so quickly and reassuringly. _

_Then I would never forget the time I saw my husband the next week on Sunday. It was three o'clock, and I had just returned back from buying more food ingredients for making my dinner. _

Mrs. Gimmons opened the door and walked her way over to the kitchen to put her food down. As she went to put the canned foods onto the shelf, she remembered how Jose had taken the olive oil that morning to use it for his scrambled eggs, and olive oil was what she needed for her new recipe.

"Jose?" she called out. "Jose, I need the olive oil you had this morning. Jose?" She exited the kitchen and went towards his bedroom, only to find it empty.

"Jose, where are you?" she asked, walking and searching each room she walked by. "Where are you?" As she made her way back to the kitchen, she noticed the open balcony door and had only one idea of where Jose had gone to.

"Jose, I'm been looking for you," she said, seeing him outside on the balcony table.

_But I didn't expect to see him in a very familiar position, a position he had been always seen in every week. He had a smile on his face, the same one he had used to display on Sunday afternoons. On the table in front of him was the chess board I could assume he had set up. The pieces, to my surprise, were in various places. As I stared in confusion at my husband, my mind completely changed when I saw a white bishop move diagonally across the board as my husband watched contently. The only thing was that he wasn't the one who had moved it. _

* * *

_After that Sunday, everything seemed just the same as it was a month ago. Sunday afternoons were back to normal, or the same at least. I would always take away the sandwich plate from Jose as he went to the chess table. He looked so healthy and well lately._

"You ate everything!" said Gloria said in surprise. "I'm glad your eating habits are back to normal."

"You know I love you," Jose said, as they leaned in for a quick kiss. She turned around to head back, but then turned back to the table once again.

"Have a good game, you two," Gloria told them. "And keep your fighting down."

"We'll try, we'll try," said Jose. "Oh, and Wendell says your new recipe meal smells marvelous." Gloria smiled happily at across of Jose at the empty chair.

"Why, thank you Wendell!" said Mrs. Gimmons, flattered that her recent cooking experiment was a blossoming success. "But you still haven't seen anything yet."

"Okay, your move first," Jose said, looking from across from him.

_I would always wait for the first move of the white piece before I left to test my new recipes. And every time, the pawn in front of the king would move up two spaces. Jose would shake his head and chuckle._

"You never change!" _he would say as he proceeded to make his next move. Sometimes the game lasted for over thirty minutes, even an hour. And as I would be in the kitchen testing my blooming kitchen skills, I would keep the kitchen window open so I could keep my usual eye on them. Sometimes I would close it when the arguing between them distracted me too much, but at least from now on I could only hear the sound of one of those bickering old men. Of course, I didn't really think I actually believed in such things before. But with my real and only eyes, I could see how those white pieces were moving by themselves. I guess my husband and his best friend can never be separated after all._

_Oh, how I love Sunday afternoons._

* * *

The host picks up his black knight from the playing board to checkmate the opposing king on the other side. 

"Unfortunately, and fortunate in some way for Jose, the usual revival of the Sunday afternoons suddenly ended after another few weeks. How do you judge this story? Was Jose probably imagining the chess pieces playing by themselves in his deep desire for having his friend back? But then how did his more rational wife witness the later paranormal games Jose played? How do you explain the smell of his friend's cologne as well? Perhaps the only explanation is that Wendell's spirit returned back to where he had loved the most; in the company of his best friend and to relive the enjoyment of the game chess. Can this story have really taken place? Choose your decision, because it is your turn to make the move."

* * *

Peach: Oh dear, that story was confusing and really creepy. 

Klepto: How could this story have happened? Or maybe it did?

Wario: So fake!!

Flurrie: Wait sweetums, can you consider just once the possibly of a story about a spirit coming back to play chess as true?

Luigi: I really think this story might have happened, with some personal experience.

Peach: These stories are based on the real world, you know

Luigi: I still believe this story had occurred somewhere and somehow. For my last and final prediction for tonight's story, I think this story is FACT

Wario: Nahaha! FICTION

Klepto: I'm stuck between my beliefs.

Flurrie: Gosh, me too. It's just all the stuff in the tale that seemed so weird and unreal. It has the possibilities of being fact.

Wario: Don't be stupid.

Flurrie: FACT

Klepto: I'll have to go with fake, cause it seems just a bit too much. FICTION

Peach: Ehhhh, I really don't know! Fiction it is! FICTION.

Host: I think I've got twenty five submissions for tonight with names and titles on them. I'll be back with the final results, and also with…

All: (gasps) The truth!

Flurrie: This is going to be interesting now…

_When we return, all the stories of tonight will finally be revealed whether to be true or false, when we return to Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction._

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Also, I suggest you review and say your guesses for the stories on this show before they get revealed. Can you really seperate the line between fact or fiction and prove to be an untricked person, or are you leaning over to one side too much? The truths will be in the final chapter!**


	6. Fact or Fiction?

_**Note! Do not read this final chapter if you have not read the previous five stories yet! The truths will be revealed, and I recommend you go back and take your guesses before you view this page. Thank you.**_

* * *

"How do you think you did tonight? What were your opinions for these unusual tales? While the VIP members' opinions are shown as well, the one actually being tested is you: the reader. We will now go through all five stories and see which were fact, and which were actually fiction."

* * *

_**1) Rocky Edges**_

"Our first story was about the explorer in his hiking group who returned back to the camp, only to discover that he had been lost for longer than he thought he was. What did you think?"

L: F, W: F, P: F, F: F, K: T x

* * *

"Well, this place previously was a touring hike station before this gas station I built. The camp station was closed down."

"Why…why did it close down so suddenly?" Kenny asked him in a quivering voice.

"Not suddenly," the magikoopa replied. "Gradually. I heard that a group of seven people had been lost one day on a hike journey, over those old cliff mountains, and they were never found again. This meant bad business, and soon later, the station closed, and I was given the rightful owner of these acres living a mediocre life."

"That's…not possible!" Kenny cried out, this time in horror and ultimate misunderstanding. "The group got lost, and the place was shut down all in the hours of today?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't seem to understand what you're saying," the magikoopa said with a perplexed face, his eyes full of puzzlement. "After the reporting of the lost hiking group, Rocky Edges Hiking Tours was shut down nearly twenty years ago."

* * *

"Did this story seem too far-fetched for you? If it did, then you're right on time with your prediction. It's pure fiction." 

-

-

-

-

**Rocky Edges: FICTION**

**

* * *

**

**_2) Betty Knows _**

"The story about the witness of a murder, who turned out to be a doll; Fact or fiction?"

L: F, W: F, P: T, F: T, K: F

* * *

"And these dolls of Mrs. Parson's," he continued. Clara looked up as he stepped forwards to the bed. The detective had admired the details of the dolls in the living room, and saw one of them in the center of the bed, face up.

"I was told that she took very special care of them, and even talked to them," the detective said with a smile.

"Oh, yes," Clara said, managing to smile herself. "She was such a unique person. That one is Betty, on the bed."

The detective reached forwards and grabbed the doll, bouncing it lightly in his hands. He noticed the string on the back, and he pulled it.

"_Mommy and Daddy, I love you very much" _the doll spoke.

"Oh," the detective said in an interested voice. "How cute." Clara smiled.

"_No, please don't hurt Mommy and Daddy, Ms. Stevenson!"_

The detective froze, and turned to Clara. She had sunk back into the wooden chair she was sitting in, her face pale and stricken with fear.

"I…" she stammered. "I don't understand! Why did she say such a thing?" The detective could do nothing else but pull the string again, his fingers trembling the slightest bit.

"_Please Ms. Stevenson; don't put that stuff in their mouths!"_

* * *

"Did you think this story about the humanized doll was false as well? If you did, then you're mistaken. A story like this did happen." 

-

-

-

-

**Betty Knows: FACT**

* * *

**_3) The Other Identity_**

"How did you think of the story about the two people who happened to fall in love, only to discover that they had been living with each other's parents their entire lives?"

L: F, W: T, P: T, F: F, K: T

* * *

"This person was born the same day and at the same time in the emergency room, exactly the same place and time my fiancé was delivered."

"And look at this," Kate pointed out. She pointed to under the Gender section of the other file, and underneath, 'Girl' was written and crossed out, and besides it was the word' Boy'.

"This baby boy who was born on the same day as me has the opposite type of mistake," she pointed out. "This has to mean something."

The lady pondered the fact before talking. "Well," she said. "Obviously, it could have just been a small mix up. The record papers were probably switched between you and the other baby, before the necessary corrections were made."

_Suddenly, it all made sense. I couldn't believe I hadn't of considered it before. Could it be, with all the evidence I finally had? Could it be possible?_

"Is it possible," Kate said, her voice becoming more certain, "It is possible that it wasn't the record papers that were switched, but…the ones switched were the babies?"

The lady suddenly stopped moving and looked up at her. Her eyes were wide, and her expression was stunned in place as she looked at Kate in alarmed uneasiness. Kate and Jason exchanged glances.

* * *

"Did a story like this seem to be possible in any way? If you thought so, then you'll be happy to know that it is. An event like this did occur." 

-

-

-

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**The Other Identity: FACT**

**

* * *

**

**_4) Curse of Hatched Huts_**

"What about the tale of the mysterious painting that cursed the family generation who had stolen it years before? What was your opinion?"

L: T, W: F, P: T, F: F, K: T

* * *

"Perhaps you're not into the artistic works, but almost every artist or person in an art museum will recognize this painting, always in pictures. The painting is called _Hatched Huts by an Island_." 

"Hatched huts by an island," Clear's father repeated. "Can you tell us about it?"

"Well, not much is known," Mr. Hera said, "But people still question whether it exists or not, and you've answered the question right in my office. It's an unfinished piece of work, and was guarded and kept preciously by the artist who never got to finish his last touches to the painting. He committed suicide later on."

"Committed suicide," Clear said, and then something was suddenly remembered in her mind that she had learned about in school the previous day. "That, that painting! It's drawn by Ludweg Van Gough!"

"I believe this is the genuine copy," said Mr. Hera in an amazed voice. "Since that day it was stolen by Skinner 'Skipper' Anwhistle over a hundred years ago, I can't believe you actually found it! It's probably worth hundreds of thousands of coins!"

_Grandma's life support system had failed, and had died just minutes after we left the office. Mr. Hera had hung the painting on the wall when we had left, only for it to fall seconds later. It shattered into pieces, and the curse was gone._

* * *

"Do you think a story about the cursed painting of Van Gough's could have happened? Not this time, however. It was made up." 

-

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**Curse of Hatched Huts: FICTION**

* * *

"Our last tale was about the chess-loving man who never seemed to be separated from his beloved friend, or white chess pieces. True or false?" 

L: T, W: F, P: F, F: T, K: F

* * *

"Have a good game, you two," Gloria told them. "And keep your fighting down." 

"We'll try, we'll try," said Jose. "Oh, and Wendell says your new recipe meal smells marvelous." Gloria smiled happily at across of Jose at the empty chair.

"Why, thank you Wendell!" said Mrs. Gimmons, flattered that her recent cooking experiment was a blossoming success.

"Okay, your move first," Jose said, looking from across from him.

_I would always wait for the first move of the white piece before I left to test my new recipes. And every time, the pawn in front of the king would move up two spaces. Jose would shake his head and chuckle._

"You never change!" _he would say as he proceeded to make his next move And as I would be in the kitchen testing my blooming kitchen skills, I would keep the kitchen window open so I could keep my usual eye on them. Of course, I didn't really think I actually believed in such things before. But with my real and only eyes, I could see how those white pieces were moving by themselves. I guess my husband and his best friend can never be separated after all._

_Oh, how I love Sunday afternoons._

_

* * *

_

"Did you think this story was made up? Then you're absolutely wrong. The occurrence of these unusual chess games had taken place in the 1980's."

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**Let's Play Chess: FACT**

**

* * *

**

Host: Comments?

Luigi: Yeah, that doll story. More proof please?

Host: Occurred somewhere in the west coast of "America", in the 1970's. Did I mention that afterwards, the revealing recordings of the doll were never found again? Then the doll disappeared suddenly a day later?

Luigi: Ahhh! Stop it, it's scaring me.

Klepto: I really thought that painting story was true.

Flurrie: And I thought those marrying people who were switched at birth was false! Now nearly nothing is impossible.

Wario: HAHA, I was right about the time traveling weirdo and the falling hut picture. So fake, I knew it.

Peach: I don't mean to swear or use incorrect grammer in any way, but what the hell with that chess story?!

Wario: Ghosts don't exist!

Host: The truth does seem stranger than fiction, doesn't it?

Luigi: Yeah, I guess.

Host: Okay, now that truths were revealed, here is the tally of the number of stories you got correct:

Luigi: 2

Wario: 3

Peach: 3

Flurrie: 4

Klepto: 1

Host: The winner of the most predictions is…Flurrie!

Flurrie: Oh, yes! My adorable tactics has made me quite the winner!

Peach: Yeah, Flurrie!

Wario: Grrr, so very close…

Host: Well done. May I award the prize?

Flurrie: Oh! I was so caught up with all this supernatural stuff that I forgot about this prize. What is it!

_Congratulations Flurry! For being the winner with four correct stories, you win a two night journey on the Daisy Cruiser cruise ship! You can't imagine its luxurious qualities that'll make you want to swim for more. When you arrive back home, receive will a free edition of Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction DVD, Season 1! _

Flurrie: My word! Such luxurious prizes indeed.

Host: Second is tied with Peach and Wario. You both receive a blue-purple T-shirt that says, "Is there a line between Fact and Fiction?"

Peach: Okay!

Host: Luigi, thank you for participating for tonight

Luigi: It's been a fun with guessing. And at least I'm not in last place.

(All look at Klepto)

Host: Klepto, you will now receive a special "reward" for being the most wrong. Since you incorrectly stated an even number of stories of both sides, you can choose wither Skeptic's Sentence or Truster's Torture.

Klepto: Dang…umm, Truster's?

_Klepto, you are now going to enter in the Truster's Torture area, while the others can watch through a window and laugh or pity._

Klepto: What?? Oh shoot.

Host: Thank you for watching this night's episode of Beyond Belief: Fact or Fiction. Klepto, please enter through that room.

Honorable Mentions:

(Firekai) So close with four correct out of all five. But well done! That last story was a throw-off

(Meowth's Toon Dragon) You got all of them right! You can't be cheating, could you? Anyway, congratulations for a perfect record!

(PeasleysParakeet) Really educated guess for Story 4! But alas, it turned out to be made up.

(Marioman173) You got three right! And I appreciated your belief in frozen time traveling. I wish that was true. Edit: It's good you didn't succumb to the doubts of ghosts, and with that, you got 4/5!

(An Ordinary Reader) Three right! Great ! Haha, you were so skeptic for all the bizarre stories, but even I can't blame you.

* * *

"How well was your accuracy for this night? Two of these stories were made up, while three of them had actually happened. Were the stories too strange to believe, or did you cross that line into believing that some of the stories were truth? Sometimes, it can be said that there is no line at all between fact and fiction, and that they simply lay besides each other in the same world. I'm Mr. Host, and thanks for watching." 

_The stories titled "Betty Knows" and "Let's Play Chess" were true, according to the research of Mushroom Kingdom author Toader Tralins. Join us next epsiode for more._

* * *

**Thank you host, and that concludes the end! How do you think this was? Should any formatting be done? Should the stories have a theme? Depending on what reviews I get, I'm considering a second episode of Beyond Belief. Thank you all for reading these strange tales!**


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